


Inescapable Fantasies

by Chichuri



Category: Fringe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-28
Updated: 2009-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-03 10:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chichuri/pseuds/Chichuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter can't get her out of his head. Episode tag to "Bad Dreams".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inescapable Fantasies

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle VIII, but the idea has been lurking in my head since the episode "Bad Dreams" aired. Prompts used: imagined, reality.

Peter stares up at the ceiling, sleep not even a hope. Maybe Olivia will be able to find rest, at least, now that the source of her all too real nightmares has been put out of commission. Peter, on the other hand, may never sleep again. The instant he identified the sounds Olivia was making while held asleep by flashing lights and dreaming another person's life, he knew he was so fucking screwed. Except not literally, which is part of the problem.

Not that he's thought about it. No lurid fantasies of seducing her in her office, of her laughing and nipping at his lips as he kissed her, of feeling her fall apart around him. Not a fucking one, not that he'll admit to. Because she's a friend, and she needs all the friends she can get. Not another lover. Especially not _him_ as a lover.

If only he could convince his libido of the fact. He's making an effort to do the right thing, for once; the least his body could do is cooperate. He does not need his dick informing him that she could be comforted much more thoroughly than by a simple hug or pat on the back. Neither does he need to be unable to sleep because the sound of her as she came keeps running through his head on permanent replay.

The occasional daydreams of her beneath him—on top of him, beside him, whatever—are bad enough, but now he's got a soundtrack to go with it, breathy moans that hint at what he might be able to draw out of her. Only hint, because he sure as fuck can do better than the poor kid whose quickie she experienced, but enough that those moans will haunt him, waking and sleeping.

When he closes his eyes he sees her grinning up at him, eyes sparkling and every inch of that pale skin bared. He pushes into her, slow and lazy; her eyes flutter closed, that damned moan breathing out from her parted lips, her fingernails biting into his shoulders. He leans down to kiss her, braced on his forearms so he can bury his hands in the golden tumble of her hair, and she rises to meet him, hips canting upwards and driving him deeper—

His eyes snap open the reality of the shadowed ceiling, to his father snoring lightly and shifting in his sleep.

Peter pushes his palms against his eyes and tries to wipe the images from his brain. So fucking screwed. And he can't even jack off to the fantasy, not without lingering guilt that he's somehow betraying her trust, and he has no fucking clue where _that's_ coming from, either. He doesn't do guilt. Not until now.

He bangs his head against the arm of the couch in frustration, then pushes to his feet. One ice-cold shower, coming up. And maybe by morning he'll have figured out how to look at her straight without giving away what plays through his mind in the darkest hours of the night.


End file.
